


Surrogate

by lookninjas



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sue Sylvester takes an active interest in Kurt's home life, to the extent that blackmailing her Australian arch-nemesis into mentoring him counts as "taking an active interest."  Rollerskating, fried pickles, and <i>Grease</i> references ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrogate

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://morethan4sides.livejournal.com/profile)[morethan4sides](http://morethan4sides.livejournal.com/) Weekly Challenge #8, "Kurt Hummel Gets a Friend."

_Friday, 2:47 PM_

 

As much as Kurt likes to pretend that his innate superiority and disdain for the lesser beings that surround him renders him completely and totally immune to fear, it isn't true. He's perfectly capable of being frightened, even terrified. He remembers this every time he finds himself being seized by his latest ridiculously expensive and totally necessary scarf and dragged bodily into Sue Sylvester's office.

This time, there's a woman sitting in one of the chairs, wearing a well-tailored but otherwise completely hideous beige suit, a turquoise statement necklace (he's not sure what sort of statement it's meant to be making, but it is very loud) and enormous sunglasses. For a few moments, he is too confused to feel frightened. Then the woman takes off her sunglasses and gives him the once-over, and he finds himself absolutely paralyzed.

It's _Olivia Newton-John_.

If he'd peed himself a little bit out of sheer terror (not that he did -- are you kidding? He's _Kurt Hummel_ ) he would have felt completely justified in doing so.

"Sit down," Coach Sylvester orders, and Kurt obeys. Sue doesn't sit; of course she doesn't sit. She paces behind her desk, hands folded behind her back like a general in a war movie, or maybe a Bond villain, although she'd need a large, fluffy cat for that and she probably hates cats for some ridiculous and contrived reason that has to do with her fighting the Contras on Reagan's request or something and Kurt is pretty sure he's about to hyperventilate or burst into maniacal laughter and get hauled away to an insane asylum (or Miss Pillsbury) but really, this is just too strange and if Coach Sylvester doesn't stop pacing, he's going to --

"So," Coach Sylvester says, resting both hands on her desk and staring directly at Kurt, and actually, he preferred the pacing. This is _so much worse_. "Kurt Hummel. I've been doing a little research on you, and I understand that you lost your mother several years ago."

Kurt almost says something, something like "She died when I was six" or "Yes, it was very hard" or "My father's doctors have cleared him to use the shotgun again, so don't even think about trying to adopt me," but he's pretty sure that Coach Sylvester doesn't actually want him to talk. Also, she may have bruised his larynx when she dragged him down the hallway by his scarf (he really should have worn the Michael Kors today; it's far too bulky to be used as an effective garrote), and he feels that attempting speech could result in permanent damage to his vocal cords, so.

Coach Sylvester straightens, having wrung all the drama that she could out of that pause. "No doubt, that early childhood trauma and the subsequent lack of a maternal figure to guide you in the right direction has contributed to your becoming the shallow, arrogant, bitchy little cliche that you are today."

"I'm not a cliche!" Kurt protests.

Both women give him withering stares at that; he's particularly impressed by Olivia Newton-John's. It's always more difficult to wither people from behind sunglasses. He knows. He's tried.

"Now ordinarily, I'd let you wallow in a pool of your own stereotypical flamboyance, but I've taken an interest in you." Coach Sylvester straightens to her full height and stares down at him. It makes him feel about two inches tall. "Maybe it's because you and I share similar beliefs or because you've helped me break into music videos, or maybe it's just that I feel a ridiculous amount of pity for someone who has to spend so much time around Will Schuester. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that I want to give back to the community. So I've arranged to correct the glaring deficit in your home life by arranging for you to be mentored and guided by a loving surrogate mother." She turns her eyes towards Olivia Newton-John.

_No._ No. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, _no --_

"For one day," Ms. Newton-John (Mrs. Newton-John? Olivia? He can't call her "Mom," that's for sure) says. "Those were the terms of the settlement, as agreed upon by your lawyers and mine. One day of mentoring, plus a cut of the royalties from all future sales of 'Physical' on iTunes and a sizable donation to be made to the local Humane Society in the name of Miss Jean Sylvester. And that's all, Sue."

_Jean_ Sylvester? Kurt makes a mental note to look into that, when he's not busy being permanently scarred.

"Fine." Coach Sylvester folds her arms. "But in that one day, you had better permanently change this young man's life -- for the _better_. Otherwise, I will consider our contract null and void, and that video of you and Mr. Groban will be on PornTube before you can say 'Josh Groban likes a blowzy alcoholic.'"

_Olivia Newton-John. Josh Groban. PornTube._ Kurt can already tell he's going to spend a significant amount of time repressing these memories, and the mentoring session hasn't even started.

"Fine," Ms. Newton-John says, lips tight-pressed.

"Fine." Coach Sylvester scowls down at them for a few more seconds. "That's just fine. Well. Give your new mom a hug, Ladyface."

This is going to be the _worst day ever._

 

_Friday, 7:32 PM_

 

"You're being incredibly selfish," Kurt says. His voice has gotten ridiculously high, almost Chipmunk-level high, but he doesn't care. He is too distraught to care. "You realize that, don't you? That this is incredibly selfish."

"Kurt." Mercedes has gotten better at sounding unimpressed over the years. He's been a terrible influence on her. "I'm in Florida. For my cousin's wedding. What do you expect me to do, steal my dad's car and drive back to Ohio just to save you from Olivia Newton-John?"

"I'd do it for you," he points out. "You know I would. In a heartbeat."

"You wouldn't do it for me," Mercedes says. "You'd do it to get away from the bridesmaid's dresses, not for me. Look, maybe this won't be so bad. You could learn a lot from her. Aren't you always talking about how you'll have to learn to handle the paparazzi sooner or later?"

Kurt gives the phone his best shocked-and-appalled face, but since neither of them is allowed to send each other videos anymore, Mercedes can't see it and it therefore does him no good. "Okay. First off, _Rachel_ is the one who goes on and on about handling the paparazzi, which is ridiculous because she'll never be nearly as famous as I will and therefore will never have to deal with them. Second, there's no paparazzi in Lima; and _third_ , if there were, which there aren't, but if there were, they wouldn't be following around a washed-up has-been like Olivia Newton-John!"

"That's no way to talk about your mother," Mercedes says. She's laughing, now. She's laughing at his misery.

"I hate you," Kurt says. "I really do."

Mercedes doesn't stop laughing, not even for a second.

Traitor.

 

_Saturday, 9:15 AM_

 

"So."

Kurt doesn't look up; he's busy hacking little pieces off his egg-white omelet in an attempt to make it look like he's eating. He feels that this is a perfectly acceptable way to treat his surrogate mother -- Finn does it to his real mother at least once a week.

"Your dad seems nice?"

He can't tell if it's a question, or if it's just that ridiculous accent. Also, if his dad were really nice, he'd have gotten back in the bathrobe and laid on the sofa looking pale and weak and completely incapable of surviving without his son for more than thirty seconds at a time. On the other hand, it _did_ seem like he was trying to be large and intimidating when he answered the door, which was very endearing. So his dad gets points for that.

Hopefully it wasn't too much strain on him. He still tires so easily. What if he has a dizzy spell? He might fall. He might have another heart attack. He might --

"I heard he's been sick?"

Just like that, Kurt snaps. "My father had a heart attack which caused an interruption of the blood flow to his brain, putting him in a coma for a week. It's left him easily confused, constantly irritable, and barely capable of walking more than five feet on his own. This is the first time I've left him alone in that house in a month, and I'm only doing it because he's starting to worry about me and he _doesn't need that_."

Ms. Newton-John is staring at him from across the table. He takes a deep breath.

"So if you want to do something nice for me today, and whatever deal you have with Coach Sylvester means you pretty much have to, you'll either let me go back home or find some way to distract me. But please don't force me into small talk about the fact that my father nearly died."

Olivia Newton-John keeps looking at him, but there's something kind of weird and soft about her face now. It's funny -- it doesn't matter how terrified he might be, or how angry, or how desperate to get home and make sure that his father isn't hurt or hungry or dead on the floor -- every time he looks at her, he has to take a second to catch his breath and realize that he is in the same room with Sandy from _Grease_. It is a very, very strange thing to have to realize. "Of course?" Ms. Newton-John says (and her accent makes even that sound like a question.) "I've got just the thing."

 

_Saturday, 10:31 AM_

 

And that's how he finds himself trapped in the cat room at the animal shelter with Olivia Newton-John. The furballs are everywhere -- rubbing, purring, shedding. There is no way his pinstripe pants will survive this.

As if to drive the point home, a kitten starts climbing up his legs, needle-sharp claws snagging the fabric wherever they dig in.

"Oh, just sit down," Olivia Newton-John says. "Look, I'll get you a new outfit. But this will be really good for you."

There is nothing good about animal dander. But he is slightly mollified by the idea of shopping. "Fine," he says, scowling, and lowers himself to the ground, careful not to dislodge the kitten clinging precariously just above his kneecap.

It gives him a curious mewl, so he reaches out to scratch it behind the ears. Almost immediately, its eyes close and it lets out a high-pitched purring that vibrates its whole body.

"I told you," Ms. Newton-John says.

For a few seconds, he almost wants to agree with her. Then the other cats, apparently realizing that his guard is down, swarm on him. Within seconds, he is completely covered with cat hair. It's actually worse than being slushied.

He glares at Olivia Newton-John. She only laughs. "Oh, stop worrying about your clothes. I told you I'd get you new ones. Coach Sylvester wants me to make you more masculine anyway."

Kurt freezes. "This was a set-up," he says. "This whole thing was a set-up to ruin my outfit. I can't believe this."

"Jesus, you really are melodramatic, aren't you?"

Kurt would say something really cutting in response to that, but one of the cats has climbed up his chest and is head-butting his cheek, and really, there's enough cat fur in his life right now without him getting a mouthful of it.

Also, it's probably true.

 

_Saturday, 2:15 PM_

 

This is karma. After all, he _is_ the one who dressed Rachel in that horrifying _Grease_ catsuit in order to humiliate her in front of Finn. And now, Sandy herself is trying to force him into a Danny Zuko costume. It's really no more than he deserves.

That doesn't mean he's going to let her drag him out in public like this, though.

"Just come out of the fitting room," Ms. Newton-John says. "It can't be that bad."

"Oh, I assure you, it is," Kurt says. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd thought to wear the converse today, or maybe the white Dr. Martens, but his Kenneth Cole loafers just aren't adding _anything_ to this look. Maybe if he could talk her into a scarf... No, that would be worse. And anything leather and/or studded would just be pathetic right now; he'd look like a toddler pretending to be tough.

"It's classic," Ms. Newton-John protests.

"It's _boring_ ," Kurt shoots back. "I might yawn myself to death just looking in the mirror."

She groans. "Honestly, you're worse than my daughter, and that's hard," she says. "Fine. Here." One long-nailed hand appears over the top of the fitting room door, bringing a new outfit with it -- a pale blue button-down shirt and loose pants with a subtle but distinguished check. He takes the clothing warily, holds up each piece, eyes it.

They're not terrible. Still, though. "These pants are too big for me."

"They're not too big for you; they're just not painted on. Honestly, they'll look fantastic on you. Very Gene Kelly."

Out of all the co-stars she could have mentioned at that moment, she'd had to choose Gene Kelly, hadn't she? Damn her. "You really think so?" he asked, trying desperately not to sound too hopeful.

"You're a little more delicate than he was, but you've got the right attitude for them," Ms. Newton-John says. "Most boys your age can't pull of that sort of masculine elegance."

She's doing this on purpose. She's buttering him up in order to get what she wants. And the horrible thing is, it's working. _Damn_ her. "All right, but I want suspenders."

"Deal."

 

_Saturday, 3:04 PM_

 

"I will say one thing," Olivia says, as Kurt attempts a spin. He doesn't fall, so he does it again. And then again. "You're much better at roller-skating than Gene Kelly ever was. Ridiculously graceful as long as he didn't have wheels strapped to his feet, but as soon as the skates were on..."

"Mike's the same way," Kurt says, skating backwards in front of her. "From my glee club? He's, like, the most amazing dancer, but when we had practices here, he was just absolutely hopeless. Couldn't stay upright for more than five minutes." He folds his hands behind his back, remembering for a few seconds. "You know, I thought this place closed down after April Rhodes finally made it out of Lima," he said. "It was losing a lot of money."

"It still is, believe me," Olivia said. "But the royalties for _Xanadu_ are covering it nicely. You'd be surprised how much money that movie rakes in. To this day, even."

Kurt hmms, skating in circles around her. Then he comes to a stop right next to her. "Wait," he says. " _You_ own the skating rink now? But... why? I thought you hated Ohio?"

"One of my first hits in the UK was about Ohio," Olivia says. "Well, it's about the Ohio River. Well, actually, it's about drowning someone in the Ohio River. Still, though. I suppose I'm a bit sentimental about it. And Ohio's not terrible, in small doses. It's when you're here for too long that it makes you crazy."

"Amen," Kurt says, quietly.

Olivia stops, catching his arm to pull her to a stop next to him. "Look," she says. "I know that right now, this feels like your own personal hell. Believe me, I _hated_ Melbourne as a child. But you never know. Someday, you might want nothing more than to be back here."

"Lies," Kurt says, but he doesn't try to skate away. "All lies."

"Really," Olivia says, and ruffles his hair. "Ohio's got its charms." Then she's gliding gracefully off to the other side of the rink, and Kurt has to scramble to catch up.

 

_Saturday, 4:57 PM_

 

"You know, when you said that Ohio had its charms, I didn't think you meant deep-fried pickles," Kurt says, looking dubiously at the array of saturated fats spread out before him.

"Spoken like a man who's never tried a deep-fried pickle," Olivia says. She picks one up, dips it in ranch dressing (oh, the _horror_ ), and takes a bite. "Seriously," she adds, still chewing. Kurt has never been more disgusted in his entire life, and he spent weeks sharing a locker room with the football team, so he knows from horror. "Lighten up, Kurt! When was the last time you ate anything that wasn't high in fiber, low in fat, and with the overall consistency of a piece of cardboard?"

To be honest, even he's gotten a little weary of the new dietary restrictions his family lives by. Not that he's fond of greasy diner food as a general rule, but he does miss his culinary dates with Julia Child. And Julia wouldn't hesitate when presented with fried pickles, cheese sticks, and other cholesterol bombs -- she'd dive right in and follow it up with some heart-healthy red wine to clear away the damage (not that Kurt is planning on getting drunk, after what happened the last time, but still). Hesitantly, he reaches across the table for one, dips it lightly in the ranch dressing, and takes a bite.

It is everything that is wrong with the midwest in one bite. Deep frying. Ranch dressing. Inferior pickles.

It tastes like heaven.

"Oh, God," he says, quietly, and reaches for another one.

Olivia just laughs at him, again. He's actually kind of starting to like the way she laughs at him.

 

_Saturday, 6:15 PM_

 

He should be eager to step out of the Range Rover, eager to get back to his house, check on his father, call Mercedes and give her all the gory details of the day.

For some strange reason, he isn't.

He will, of course -- he'll climb down from the car and take his new clothes and his stomach full of grease and everything he's learned about Gene Kelly into the house, back to his real life. But right now, he's sitting next to Olivia Newton-John, in her car, as she hums "Magic" under her breath, and he just kind of wants to hold onto the moment a little longer. If it's a cliche, it's a cliche.

Olivia looks at him. She's actually much less withering without her sunglasses on. Actually, he'd go so far as to say she's nice. Sometimes. "You know," she says. "I'll be coming up to Ohio regularly, to check on my new roller rink. I could give you a call the next time I'm up. If you wanted to."

Kurt smiles. "I'd like that," he says. "Really."

Olivia smiles back, but after a few moments, her expression turns contemplative. "You know, I was quite ill for a while, probably before you were even born. And my daughter, Chloe, was very small then, but she was so worried about me. She really started to act like she was the parent and I was the child, you know. I felt so horribly guilty about it. My husband would take her out for the day sometimes, let her be a child again for just a little bit, and as much as I missed her while she was gone... It did ease the burden a bit, knowing that she still had a life beyond looking after me." She ruffles Kurt's hair. "Now go check up on your father. I know you've been worrying."

Kurt unbuckles his seatbelt, but he doesn't climb out of the car. Instead, he leans over and gives Olivia the best hug he can manage. "Thank you," he says.

She kisses his cheek. "You're very welcome."

 

_Monday, 9:55 AM_

 

"Ladyface!"

Kurt closes his locker and adjusts his Michael Kors scarf for maximum laryngeal protection before turning around. "Yes, Coach?"

Sue Sylvester gives him a once-over. "I see you're still dressed like the most irritating cast member during any given season of Project Runway," she says. "Was Olivia Newton-John not able to resolve your mommy issues in a shockingly limited amount of time with no resources or professional help?"

Kurt takes a deep breath. He's been practicing this speech all Sunday, so there's no way he can get it wrong now. "With all due respect, Coach Sylvester, I don't think I have any unresolved mother issues, and even if I did, my clothing is not a symptom. I've been dressing like this since I was old enough to pick out my own clothes, long before my mother died. Being fabulous isn't something I do to cover up deep insecurities and a lack of love -- it's simply who I am, and will always be. One day with the star of _Xanadu_ isn't going to change that. In fact, I don't think anything will." Coach Sylvester frowns at that, and Kurt hastily adds, "Not that I'm not grateful for your concern, because I am. But my personality isn't caused by bad parenting. It's simply my personality. Thank you, though, for caring enough to try to help me. I really do appreciate that."

"Well," Coach Sylvester says, settling her hands on her hips. "I do try to give back when I can. Especially if I can do so without cutting in to my trophy-polishing time." She looks at him. "So, the mentorship program wasn't a complete failure, then?"

"Not at all," he says. "In fact, I think I learned a great deal. Not as much as I've learned from you, of course."

_That_ helps; in fact, Coach Sylvester almost smiles. Which is alarming in its own way, but at least she's not attacking students, and that's always a positive sign. "I suppose that can't be helped," she says. "After all, I am an educator. And I take pride in setting a good example for my students."

"Of course," Kurt says, quickly. "We're all very grateful. I should go; I've got French class in three minutes."

Coach Sylvester waves him on, apparently slightly less irritable than normal. He only makes it a few steps before he feels something tugging at him. It's not his scarf; it might, however, be his conscience. He turns back. "Coach Sylvester?"

She gives him what might be a curious look.

"Thank you," he says. "Really. It wasn't nearly as awful as I expected."

"Don't mention it," she says. "Really, don't. The terms of the settlement are supposed to be sealed. I'll sue the ridiculously tight pants off you if this ever goes public."

Kurt nods, and hurries down the hallway.

The thing is, he wasn't lying about having learned a few things from his time with Olivia Newton-John. In fact, he really enjoyed himself. It wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be.

He's still going to make Mercedes feel guilty about it, though.


End file.
